


Wicked High

by lavellanpls



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drug Use, Fluff and Humor, Other, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 10:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4344284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavellanpls/pseuds/lavellanpls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: <i>“So idk if weed exists in Thedas, but would love a fic where Quizzy gets high regularly before the whole mark debacle and after everything that’s going on shes super stressed out. … Can be cracky or maybe their LI gets into it? Just really want a stoned!Inquisitor fic.”</i></p><p>Warning for (well) drug use.<br/>feat. a very delinquent Sera, inappropriate use of elfroot, and this stupid joke of the day that slayed the hell outta me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked High

**Author's Note:**

> throw me away in the garbage where i belong.

“Okay,” Lavellan explained, “you _cannot_ tell anyone about this.”

Sera only snickered. “Oh _right,_ and have to share?”

Presently they both sat cross-legged atop her bed, passing a pipe between them.

A note about elfroot—it was an incredibly multifaceted little plant, with a veritable _mountain_ of potential uses. Its roots were popularly used in healing potions. Some _certain_ subspecies—say, for instance, the tinged-blue royal elfroot—had _other_ uses. In more flammable areas.

Amazingly, humans hadn’t quite seemed to catch on to that that last bit yet. “Say what you will about elves,” Lavellan was saying, “but apparently we’re the only ones who thought to set stuff on fire. Plus one for us, I guess? Well, or. Minus one, depending on who you talk to.” Another note on elfroot—typically only a very specific _subset_ of elves knew much about that last part.

Imagine their shared surprise when Sera and Lavellan accidentally (and literally) smacked into each other while surreptitiously picking the same plant.

Sera giggled. “I thought elfy-elves only used this shite for stupid religion junk?”

“They do,” she agreed. “And then delinquent elves like myself steal it. For, er. Recreational purposes.”

“What kind of woodsy-lovin’ Dalish elf _are_ you?”

“An especially woodsy-loving kind?” she offered.

Sera tumbled forward onto her face in mad laughter. “I _knew_ I made a good choice with you. Wish I’d met you way earlier on, though. You would have had _fun_ in the city. Getting wicked high with the Herald of Andraste, right? Who’d a thought?”

“Well.” She raised her pipe to gallantly toast the air. “Andraste says blaze it.” A particularly harsh inhale left her sputtering. “…shit. Does this make me a bad leader?” She choked on an exhale and coughed out a cloud of smoke. “I mean I am just… _very_ stressed. I fought a thing that had tentacles coming out of its face. And…like, a backpack made of _spider legs._ I am _done_. I have _earned_ this.”

“Psh, no,” Sera assured with a dismissive wave. “You’re doing _fine._ Plus don’t forget that creepy… _creep_ thing, with the frigging _sword,_ from the bog. Ugh. _Right_ foul, that. You’re gonna need a _garden_ of this stuff.”

“The bog unicorn. The term you’re looking for is ‘bog unicorn.’ Amazingly, probably the nicest horror we’ve come across so far.” Pause. “I hate that I had to say that sentence.”

“ _Wrong._ The term I’m looking for is bloody _wrong_. Pleh.” She took a long, slow drag and held, and with a finger raised for silence puffed out four perfect smoke rings. “Oi, I’ve got an idea. Alright, so what if we…we get real tiny, right? Like into little balls. And then Big Guy picks us up, one in each hand, you get your mages to do that barrier junk, and just _launche_ s us—bam, bam, in your face!—right at the baddie? Two elves, flying through the air, straight at him! Only you’ve got to do your little summersault-y thing ahead of me and catch me, ‘cause no way can I land on my feet.”

“I don’t know if I can get launched into the air and land into a summersault. But I like your ingenuity, and damn it, I will _try._ ” Lavellan tried to hold an inhale longer than Sera’s and utterly failed. With a rasping cough, she passed the pipe back her way. “This is ridiculous. How are your lungs better than mine? I lived in the goddamn _forest_.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “and the forest blows chunks.”

Lavellan thought to argue, but instead just nodded. “A castle is probably better, yeah. Alright, so I like this flying death from above idea, but just stop for a moment and consider: _bees_.”

“Considered it. Doing it. _Done._ ”

“But why stop at insects? Why not weaponize _every_ animal? War goats, battle nugs— _bears in any context!_ —the possibilities are _endless,_ Sera. We can fight with _nature._ ”

“Or catapult ‘em at the enemy when we run out of pointy bits!”

“Or that, too. _Oh._ Hey. Speaking of animals. I’ve got a joke for you.”

Sera snorted. “Oh, _please_ do go on.”

“Alright, alright,” she began. “A man walks into a restaurant with a full-grown ostrich behind him.”

“A _what?_ ”

“Ostrich,” she clarified. She raised an arm and mimed a beak with her hand. “Big, flightless, muppet-y looking things?”

“Got it. Ugly jungle bird.”

“Savanna bird. Anyway, so he sits, and the waitress comes over and asks for their orders. The man says, ‘I’ll have an ale,’ and turns to the ostrich. ‘What’s yours?’ he asks. ‘I’ll have the same,’ says the ostrich.”

“She’s not gonna ask why a bird can friggin’ _talk?_ ”

“ _Hush._ So a short time later the waitress returns with the order. ‘That will be two coppers and a silver piece,’ she says. And the man reaches into his pocket and pulls out the exact change for payment. The next day, the man and the ostrich come again, the man orders the same thing, and the ostrich says, ‘I’ll have the same.’”

“Is this _going_ somewhere?”

“Sera, _I swear-_ Once again the man reaches into his pocket and pays with exact change. This becomes a routine until late one evening, the two enter again. ‘The usual?’ asks the waitress. ‘No, this is Friday night, so I will have a steak with my ale,’ says the man, and, of course, ‘Same for me,’ says the ostrich. A short time later the waitress comes with the order and says, ‘That will be three silver pieces and two coppers.’ Once again the man pulls exact change out of his pocket and places it on the table. The waitress can’t hold back her curiosity any longer. ‘Excuse me, sir. How do you manage to always come up with the exact change out of your pocket every time?’”

“Still not asking about the bird, then?”

In lieu of an argument Lavellan opted instead to smack her in the knee. “’Well,’ says the man, ‘several years ago I was cleaning the attic and I found an old lamp. When I rubbed it a genie appeared and offered me two wishes. My first wish was that if I ever had to pay for anything, I would just put my hand in my pocket and the right amount of money would always be there.’ ‘That’s brilliant!’ says the waitress. ‘But sir, what’s with the ostrich?’”

She paused for effect. Then: “The man sighs, pauses, and answers, ‘My second wish was for a tall chick with long legs who agrees with everything I say.’” And with that, she spread her arms wide, dropped her head, and regally _bowed_.

Sera lost it. She pitched forward with a howl of laughter, and Lavellan mimed a curtsey. “Thank you. I’ll be here all year, hopefully, barring dismemberment. Goodnight.”

She was about to rattle off the next in her repertoire when out of the blue came one singular, horrifying sound—a _knock_.

On her chamber door.

Lilith coughed so hard she thought she’d lose a lung. Eyes stinging, she shoved a still-smoldering pipe frantically beneath a pillow and leapt from the bed. “ _Shit!_ ”

“Inquisitor?” a familiar voice called. Then, sharper, “ _A moment?_ ”

By now she’d picked up a book and had begun hopelessly fanning at the open window. She motioned ineffectually at Sera. “Quick, do…something!”

“Oh no!” Sera managed through laughter, unconvincingly feigning anguish, “Quick, _mum and dad are coming!_ ” Any semblance of composure was lost in a fit of self-indulgent giggles. Lavellan—for some reason—called out a panicked, “Don’t come in, I’m…naked?”

Stupidly, she expected that to work.

It did not.

While Lavellan ran frantically to toss open another window, a very unhappy elven apostate stepped inside.

For a second she just stared, frozen mid-fan, and thought, _“Maybe he won’t know.”_

He looked between the guilty pair—Sera _outstandingly_ failing at holding back laughter and Lilith looking mortified, trying to physically _shove_ smoke out a window—and gave a deep, deep sigh. “Oh, for… _Really?_ ”

“No,” Lavellan insisted.

Somehow he remained unmoved. “How _old_ are you?”

There were a lot of answers for that. “Age is irrelevant. Death can come at any time. How old are _you?_ ” Then, losing confidence, “…a lady never tells?” She withered under an uncomfortably disappointed stare. “You know, in a parallel universe,” she said, still ineffectually fanning the air. “ _You_ were the one smoking, and I was _very_ understanding.”

He opened his mouth to argue that, but was preemptively interrupted by another peal of laughter from Sera. “What is _her_ problem?”

To which Sera screamed, “ _A tall chick!_ ”

“It was funnier in context,” Lavellan translated. “…please don’t tell Cassandra.” Then, twice as horrified, “ _Don’t tell_ _Vivienne._ ”

Solas resigned from the argument with an exhausted sigh while Sera—who’d somehow rolled off the bed—cackled from the floor. “Your advisors have requested you. Urgently.” He flashed a particularly pointed glare Sera’s way. “…shall I tell them you’re indisposed, then?”

“No, no.” She straightened her shoulders and tried to look assured. “I’ve got this. I’m good. Everything’s good. War room, then? Great. Thank you.” With a stabilizing breath, she tipped her head up, smoothed down her shirt, slapped her _very_ shocked mage companion firmly on the ass, and marched for the door.

She took two steps before immediately falling back. “That was weird and I’m sorry.” She clapped him on the shoulder awkwardly at arms’ length. “Just forget that last bit. Stay frosty.”

And Solas watched, aghast, as she left. Hopefully not to start another war.

“I blame you,” he finally said aloud.

“Oh, piss off, droopy-ears. If you were _really_ smart,” Sera snickered on her way out, “you’d follow up on that.”

“Sera, get _out._ ”

 

Cassandra was awaiting her in the hall. “Ah, Inquisitor,” she greeted, “there you are. I was hoping I could catch you before…” The request died with a distressed frown. “Are you alright?”

Eloquent as a poet, Lavellan replied, “I’m not fine. _High._ _I’m_ fine. _He’s_ high. No-” Welp. “We are all very fine,” she finally decided upon. “How are you?”

“I am…well,” she answered, expression knit in oblivious concern. “Thank you.”

“Right. Good. Well is good. Sorry, if you’ll excuse me…” She nodded toward the war room door and exited with an apologetic shrug.

Cassandra, meanwhile, looked back to Solas with a frown. “Make sure she gets enough sleep,” she ordered. “I fear the stress may be taking a toll on her. She could benefit from relaxing, for once.”

Somewhere behind them, Sera cackled.


End file.
